"A Year In My Garden" book available

Click here for a preview!

Click here to learn more and order A Year In My Garden

To see additional books by Don Sessions click here

"The Art Of The Comfort Room" book

Click here for a preview

Click here to order now!

"Going To Greenland " book

Click here for a preview!

Click here to learn more and order Going To Greenland

To see additional books by Don Sessions click here

"Exploring The Northwest Passage" book

Click here to learn more and order Exploring The Northwest Passage

To see additional books by Don Sessions click here

CURRENT BLOG BELOW:

Flower for the Day Trumpet Vine 9-5-26

> > >> >> Our trumpet vine (Campsis radicans) thrives even in our dreadfully hot dry weather.It is also called hummingbird vine, trumpet creeper, and cow itch vine. It is slightly invasive but that gives me a reason to get some exercise pulling it out. >> Campsis is a native genus of flowering plants which are vigorous deciduous perennial climbers which cling too a wall by aerial roots and which produce large trumpet shaped flowers. >>  >> >> Here is a poem by Rumi which addresses the most recent poem I sent. >> >>> The Field >>> >>> Out beyond ideas of wrong- >>> doing and right-doing >>> there is a field. >>> I’ll meet you there. >>> >>> When the soul lies down >>> in that grass, >>> the world is too full to talk about. >>> Ideas, language, even >>> the phrase, “each other”, >>> doesn’t make sense. >>> >>> The Essential Rumi >> >> >> >> >> >

Flower for the Day Trumpet Vine 9-5-26

> > Our trumpet vine (Campsis radicans) thrives even in our dreadfully hot dry weather.It is also called hummingbird vine, trumpet creeper, and cow itch vine. It is slightly invasive but that gives me a reason to get some exercise pulling it out. > Campsis is a native genus of flowering plants which are vigorous deciduous perennial climbers which cling to a wall by aerial roots and which produce large trumpet shaped flowers. >  > > Here is a poem by Rumi which addresses the most recent poem I sent. > >> The Field >> >> Out beyond ideas of wrong- >> doing and right-doing >> there is a field. >> I’ll meet you there. >> >> When the soul lies down >> in that grass, >> the world is too full to talk about. >> Ideas, language, even >> the phrase, “each other”, >> doesn’t make sense. >> >> The Essential Rumi > > > > >

Flower for the Day Trumpet Vine 9-5-26

Our trumpet vine (Campsis radicans) thrives even in our dreadfully hot dry weather.It is also called hummingbird vine, trumpet creeper, and cow itch vine. It is slightly invasive but that gives me a reason to get some exercise pulling it out. Campsis is a native genus of flowering plants which are vigorous deciduous perennial climbers which cling too a wall by aerial roots and which produce large trumpet shaped flowers.  Here is a poem by Rumi which addresses the most recent poem I sent. > The Field > > Out beyond ideas of wrong- > doing and right-doing > there is a field. > I’ll meet you there. > > When the soul lies down > in that grass, > the world is too full to talk about. > Ideas, language, even > the phrase, “each other”, > doesn’t make sense. > > The Essential Rumi

Don's Blog Time to Recuperate 9-2-26 ( v2 )

I have not sent out my flower images and poems as I had a recent fall requiring stitches and am mending well.

Time marches on and I will start sending some occasional notes. During my recuperation I have loved watching the blue swallowtails on the zinnia

I am not one to give advice but if you can I recommend what this poet suggests as a way of life, a way of being.

   I Lost My Way

Once, lived on the tarred, lonely highways truth —

slugging towards the looming horizons —

the promised dwelling places for those who do not waver.

The whole world was about being either right or wrong.

I was either lost or found.

This was many years ago though.

Today when I meet people,

I recognize how utterly beyond right and wrong they are —

how their lives are symphonies beyond orchestration,

how their mistakes and failings are actually cosmic explorations

on a scale grander and of a texture softer

than our most dedicated rule-books could possibly account for.

You see something on my way — and i lost my coordinates,

my map, my directives.

Now the whole journey is the destination —

and each point, each barren point,

just as noble as the final dot.

Every splotch of ink is become to me a fresco of wisdom,

a beehive of honey, a lovely place —

and every aching voice a heavenly choir.

The world is no longer desolate and empty and exclusive,

she is now a wispy spirit, whose fingers flirt through the wind —

a million roads where only one once lay.

And I need be certain about the road traveled —

Since I arrived the selfsame moment I arrived.

Bayo Akomolafe

--

Chris Sessions Photography | Erie, Colorado | 303-819-6287 www.chrissessionsphotography.com

This email is intended only for the person or entity to which it is addressed and may contain information that is privileged, confidential or otherwise protected from disclosure. Dissemination, distribution or copying of this e-mail or the information herein by anyone other than the intended recipient, or an employee or agent responsible for delivering the message to the intended recipient, is prohibited. If you have received this e-mail in error, please immediately notify us by contacting Chris Sessions at (303) 819-6287 or by sending an email to  chris@chrissessionsphotography.com. We appreciate your cooperation.

Don's Blog Time to Recuperate 9-2-26

I have not sent out my flower images and poems as I had a recent fall requiring stitches and am mending well.

Time marches on and I will start sending some occasional notes. During my recuperation I have loved watching the blue swallowtails on the zinnias.

I am not one to give advice but if you can I recommend what this poet suggests as a way of life, a way of being.

   I Lost My Way

Once, lived on the tarred, lonely highways truth —

slugging towards the looming horizons —

the promised dwelling places for those who do not waver.

The whole world was about being either right or wrong.

I was either lost or found.

This was many years ago though.

Today when I meet people,

I recognize how utterly beyond right and wrong they are —

how their lives are symphonies beyond orchestration,

how their mistakes and failings are actually cosmic explorations

on a scale grander and of a texture softer

than our most dedicated rule-books could possibly account for.

You see something on my way — and i lost my coordinates,

my map, my directives.

Now the whole journey is the destination —

and each point, each barren point,

just as noble as the final dot.

Every splotch of ink is become to me a fresco of wisdom,

a beehive of honey, a lovely place —

and every aching voice a heavenly choir.

The world is no longer desolate and empty and exclusive,

she is now a wispy spirit, whose fingers flirt through the wind —

a million roads where only one once lay.

And I need be certain about the road traveled —

Since I arrived the selfsame moment I arrived.

Bayo Akomolafe

Flower for the Day Butterfly Bush 8-17-26

The butterfly bush (Budddleja davidii) has been a faithful perennial for over half a century. My experience has been that it draws more hummingbirds than butterflies, and an occasional beauty.

We have both purple and white flowers.

Here is a poem that addresses both dreams and reality nicely.

Antidotes to Fear of Death

Sometimes as an antidote
To fear of death,
I eat the stars.

Those nights, lying on my back,
I suck them from the quenching dark
Til they are all, all inside me,
Pepper hot and sharp.

Sometimes, instead, I stir myself
Into a universe still young,
Still warm as blood:

No outer space, just space,
The light of all the not yet stars
Drifting like a bright mist,
And all of us, and everything
Already there
But unconstrained by form.

And sometime it’s enough
To lie down here on earth
Beside our long ancestral bones:

To walk across the cobble fields
Of our discarded skulls,
Each like a treasure, like a chrysalis,
Thinking: whatever left these husks
Flew off on bright wings.

Ramona Elson

Test

This is only a test with a few bigger pictures

Test

This is only a test with pictures

Test

This is only a test

Don's Blog Time to Recuperate 9-2-26

> > I have not sent out my flower images and poems as I had a recent fall requiring stitches and am mending well. > Time marches on and I will start sending some occasional notes. During my recuperation I have loved watching the blue swallowtails on the zinnias.  > > I am not one to give advice but if you can I recommend what this poet suggests as a way of life, a way of being. > > I Lost My Way > > Once, lived on the tarred, lonely highways truth — > slugging towards the looming horizons — > the promised dwelling places for those who do not waver. > > The whole world was about being either right or wrong. > I was either lost or found. > This was many years ago though. > > Today when I meet people, > I recognize how utterly beyond right and wrong they are — > how their lives are symphonies beyond orchestration, > how their mistakes and failings are actually cosmic explorations > on a scale grander and of a texture softer > than our most dedicated rule-books could possibly account for. > > You see something on my way — and i lost my coordinates, > my map, my directives. > Now the whole journey is the destination — > and each point, each barren point, > just as noble as the final dot. > > Every splotch of ink is become to me a fresco of wisdom, > a beehive of honey, a lovely place — > and every aching voice a heavenly choir. > The world is no longer desolate and empty and exclusive, > she is now a wispy spirit, whose fingers flirt through the wind — > a million roads where only one once lay. > And I need be certain about the road traveled — > Since I arrived the selfsame moment I arrived. > > Bayo Akomolafe

Don's Blog Time to Recuperate 9-2-26

I have not sent out my flower images and poems as I had a recent fall requiring stitches and am mending well. Time marches on and I will start sending some occasional notes. During my recuperation I have loved watching the blue swallowtails on the zinnias.  I am not one to give advice but if you can I recommend what this poet suggests as a way of life, a way of being. I Lost My Way Once, lived on the tarred, lonely highways truth — slugging towards the looming horizons — the promised dwelling places for those who do not waver. The whole world was about being either right or wrong. I was either lost or found. This was many years ago though. Today when I meet people, I recognize how utterly beyond right and wrong they are — how their lives are symphonies beyond orchestration, how their mistakes and failings are actually cosmic explorations on a scale grander and of a texture softer than our most dedicated rule-books could possibly account for. You see something on my way — and i lost my coordinates, my map, my directives. Now the whole journey is the destination — and each point, each barren point, just as noble as the final dot. Every splotch of ink is become to me a fresco of wisdom, a beehive of honey, a lovely place — and every aching voice a heavenly choir. The world is no longer desolate and empty and exclusive, she is now a wispy spirit, whose fingers flirt through the wind — a million roads where only one once lay. And I need be certain about the road traveled — Since I arrived the selfsame moment I arrived. Bayo Akomolafe

Don's Blog SIXTY-FIVE 8-18-26

> > >> >> On this day 65 years ago the love of my life, Jan Elizabeth Feldwisch and I were married at the >> Pilgrim Congregational Church on Union Boulevard in St Louis. We are still full of joy and kindness. It was the best choice of my life. >

>> >> >> >> >> We are going to stop counting years but each new seasonal cycle will continue the possibility of enduring love. >>

>> >> >> >

Don's Blog SIXTY-FIVE 8-18-26

> > On this day 65 years ago the love of my life, Jan Elizabeth Feldwisch and I were married at the > Pilgrim Congregational Church on Union Boulevard in St Louis. We are still full of joy and kindness. It was the best choice of my life.

> > > > We are going to stop counting years but each new seasonal cycle will continue the possibility of enduring love. >

> >

Flower for the Day Butterfly Bush 8-17-26

> > The butterfly bush (Budddleja davidii) has been a faithful perennial for over half a century. My experience has been that it draws more hummingbirds than butterflies, and an occasional beauty. >  > > We have both purple and white flowers. >  > > Here is a poem that addresses both dreams and reality nicely. > > Antidotes to Fear of Death > Sometimes as an antidote > To fear of death, > I eat the stars. > Those nights, lying on my back, > I suck them from the quenching dark > Til they are all, all inside me, > Pepper hot and sharp. > Sometimes, instead, I stir myself > Into a universe still young, > Still warm as blood: > No outer space, just space, > The light of all the not yet stars > Drifting like a bright mist, > And all of us, and everything > Already there > But unconstrained by form. > And sometime it’s enough > To lie down here on earth > Beside our long ancestral bones: > To walk across the cobble fields > Of our discarded skulls, > Each like a treasure, like a chrysalis, > Thinking: whatever left these husks > Flew off on bright wings. > Ramona Elson >

Flower for the Day Butterfly Bush 8-17-26

The butterfly bush (Budddleja davidii) has been a faithful perennial for over half a century. My experience has been that it draws more hummingbirds than butterflies, and an occasional beauty.  We have both purple and white flowers.  Here is a poem that addresses both dreams and reality nicely. Antidotes to Fear of Death Sometimes as an antidote To fear of death, I eat the stars. Those nights, lying on my back, I suck them from the quenching dark Til they are all, all inside me, Pepper hot and sharp. Sometimes, instead, I stir myself Into a universe still young, Still warm as blood: No outer space, just space, The light of all the not yet stars Drifting like a bright mist, And all of us, and everything Already there But unconstrained by form. And sometime it’s enough To lie down here on earth Beside our long ancestral bones: To walk across the cobble fields Of our discarded skulls, Each like a treasure, like a chrysalis, Thinking: whatever left these husks Flew off on bright wings. Ramona Elson